


If The Rain Comes

by honeyheffron



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, LSD, M/M, Multi, Nostalgia, Recreational Drug Use, because that era is ripe for pain, john/ringo centric but it ain't just about them, set sometime during the let it be era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyheffron/pseuds/honeyheffron
Summary: Adrift in the sea of a technicolor daydream, John finds his way to Ringo.





	If The Rain Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Title lifted from The Beatles' "Rain."

“John, what the _bleedin’ hell_ are you doing?”

John Lennon stands at the window of Ringo’s front room in some sort of sinewy shade of obscurity, terrifyingly still. Soft yellow hues from the lamp Ringo had hastily flicked on (in his previous panic of a presumed home invasion—fucking _John,_ couldn’t just give a man a call,) illuminate his back in a mockery of sunlight. If not for the moonlit, torrential downpour of rain coming down outside, it’d almost be something gentle.

There’s John, with sunlight at his back and an impossible, furious storm beyond him—and Ringo’s never been one for metaphors, but God seems to have other plans for him tonight.

“John,” he says again, careful as he steps forward, making sure to avoid the pile of glass that had once been a very nice vase at his feet—the crash of it shattering was what had woken him up, initially, something John must’ve managed while he was clambering around in the dark.

The third time Ringo calls his name John finally turns to face him, startled like he’s been woken from a dream. John takes one long look at him, and then bursts into the shrieking hyena laughter of the hysterical child or the very, very drunk.

“Christ, a _pillow,_ son?” John giggles incredulously, and it takes all but one moment of Ringo’s contemplation to realize John’s talking about the pillow clutched uselessly in his own hands—the one he’d pulled from his bed in his earlier panicked awakening, and to his sleep-addled brain what seemed like the perfect weapon at the time.

John continues to laugh like a schoolboy, “What were you planning to do if I’d been some nutter coming in to knock you about? Smother me?”

“S’pose it’s good you’re not some nutter, then,” Ringo scoffs, tossing the pillow toward the nearest sofa, “The hell are you doin’ breaking into me house at two in the morning?”

A great roar of thunder ripples through the sky, then, and as John shrinks back from the din Ringo finally gets a good look at him.

He’s stood by the rain-spat window looking unbearably small, suddenly—his hair is plastered to his forehead like he’s just gotten out of the shower, only he’s shaking like a wet dog. As the lamplight settles over his features, the corners of his lips appear an alarming shade of blue.

Ringo’s heart aches. “God, man, you’re shivering, let me get you somethin’ dry. Stay put.”

Ringo hurries back to his room to fetch some of his own clean bedclothes, making sure to grab a towel on his way out, too. When he returns to the living room John is sat on the floor with his legs tucked under the coffee table, flicking disinterestedly at the plastic leaves of the faux-plant centerpiece—his chilled hands are wracked with tremors.

John watches Ringo’s careful step over the pile of glass still in the doorway, his pallid face suddenly darkening with guilt.

“Sorry, shouldn’t break things,” he murmurs, suddenly faraway, “I’m always breakin’ things.”

Ringo’s brows furrow. That’s not a typical Lennon admission in any traditional setting—not without something in his system he can blame it on in the morning.

As he stares up at him, closer than they’d yet been, Ringo can see through the smudgy lenses of John’s granny glasses that his pupils are blown to absolute hell. 

“What have you had, Johnny?”

“Acid, and a bit of drink,” John admits, his smile thin, “And whatever else people had to give me. Hasn’t exactly been easy facin’ things, lately.”

Ringo certainly doesn’t need a reminder. Tensions in the studio seem to climb higher and higher up the hell-bound staircase of certain doom every day they go to work. It’s taken an unfortunate toll on all of them, and he’s not sure how much further they can push their breaking point. 

Paul’s bossiness, John’s paranoia, George’s quiet resentment, his own exhaustion and disillusionment—they were a volatile mix, suddenly, and it didn’t do them or the music any good. The battling Beatles. It’s pathetic, he thinks.

Ringo nods. “You were at a party, then?”

“Aye, and it was all wine, women, and song,” John croons dreamily, waving a daft hand, which then turns into a drunkenly unsteady shake of his finger. “And you better not tell nobody but God, son.”

He offers a Cheshire smile at Ringo, but the charming effect is lost by the unsettling blue of his lips.

Ringo finally places the dry clothes he’d nabbed down on the coffee table, sitting down next to John with the towel in hand to begin drying him off. 

He goes for John’s wet hair first. He remembers his mother once telling him the fastest way to get someone warm was to begin by making sure their head was warm—he sets to work on John’s scalp, careful as he shimmies the towel down his head to make sure he’s not pulling too hard on his hair. He tries desperately to ignore how pliant John becomes under his touch, and even more desperately to ignore the tiny, pleased sound John makes after one particular swipe of the cloth.

“Too good to me, Ritchie,” John says, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear. He pretends he doesn’t.

“How long were you out there, in the rain?” He asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

“Don’t know,” John confesses, “Was just wandering, really. Made merry at the party and all and then when it got dull, I left. Think I got lost, and I was seeing all these things. The moon was _massive,_ really, and all the clouds were dancing. Found meself outside yours, eventually.”

The thought of a drunk, tripping John Lennon wandering through the night alone is a concerning one—his stomach tumbles unpleasantly as he thinks about what might’ve become of him if he hadn’t somehow found the house.

“You might’ve rung someone, before you left the thing,” Ringo suggests, trying to be gentle even through his worry, “Me, Geo, or Paul. We’d have come to take you home.”

John lets out a bark of cruel laughter. “Those two can stick it, they’ve been doing my head in for weeks. S’pose you was just guilty by association, at the time. They’d get off to seein’ me like this, I’ll bet.”

There was John, iron wit and viperous tongue at the worst of times. A genius, and yet one of the most mightily angry men he’d ever met.

“You know that’s not true,” Ringo tells him.

“Aye, maybe,” John concedes, very quietly, “But I was screamin’ all of your names, when I was lost out there, and you were the only one who showed up.”

Ringo wants to say that’s not fair, that his house was probably just the closest one to wherever John had fucked off to party, and that George and Paul still loved him, even if they’ll not admit it right now. He doesn’t, though, because he knows nothing like that would sit well with John, inebriated as he may be.

Ringo goes another minute of drying before deciding, “Right, that should do for now.” John’s long auburn tresses now appear much lighter, freed from some of the rainwater. He forgoes the now damp towel for the dry clothes he’d set down before, handing them off to John. “You can change into these, lad. They should fit you fine.”

“You mind if I change in here?” John asks, “Can’t fancy meself walking to the loo without falling flat on me ass. World’s still spinning, a little.”

Ringo tries to remember the last time John let anyone see that much of himself—he thinks it must’ve been ’66, officially, when they’d still been touring and shared dressing rooms when nothing really mattered. Everything mattered now, of course.

Unofficially, it was probably ’68, the last time they’d all been together. They hadn’t known it was the last time. It was like always—laughing into each other’s mouths, quiet sighs, toes curling, partaking in sins they’d take to their very graves. Ringo doesn’t really believe that, though. No sin could be so beautiful.

It was before John got lazy, before George got tired, before Paul became commander McCartney trying desperately to hold the trembling walls of the madhouse together. Before, before, before.

And John is here _now,_ spiteful and disastrous but still so handsome, asking to tear down a barrier between them that has existed so fiercely for more than a year now.

So Ringo manages a pitiful, “Sure, lad,” and watches John’s eyes sparkle.

He busies himself with cleaning up the glass shards of the smashed vase by the door, so as to give John some semblance of privacy. Ringo knows the booze and acid making its way through his bloodstream is the only reason he’s let go of his worldly concerns (the only reason he’s even _here_ ), so he keeps his eyes carefully cast away. John would regret it in the morning, he knows—best to leave the man some of his pride.

He’s done by the time Ringo’s tossed most of the glass into the bin, a fair bit of color having returned to his cheeks with the welcome warmth of dry clothes. They almost seem to hang off of him—Ringo doesn’t consider himself particularly large, but John’s gotten very thin, longer and leaner than he used to be.

“Better?” Ringo asks.

“Just grand, luv,” John sings, “absolutely marvelous,” and with a great showman’s flourish, throws himself down on the sofa.

Ringo allows himself an amused smile. “Careful jostlin’ yourself around like that, with all the drink in you. Don’t need you getting sick all over me new carpet.”

John throws his leg out to swipe his toes across the soft flooring experimentally. “Aye, good carpet, that.”

He then pats the seat next to him unsteadily, blinking owlishly like he doesn’t know where his hand might land each time he brings it down. Whatever he’s had can’t be doing his motor or visual skills any favors.

“Come, dear,” he adopts the feeble, crackly voice of an old Englishwoman, “Let me have a look at you.”

Ringo, against his better judgement, huffs out a laugh and obeys. “Saw you just yesterday mornin’, you know.”

“Everything’s different in the daylight,” John says sagely, voice returning to its regular cadence. He blinks again, swiping his wrist across his eyes, his gaze tracing dreamlike, technicolor shapes across the room only he can follow.

“What are you seeing?” Ringo asks. John seems on a good trip, if anything.

“The whole wide world,” John murmurs, “I’m the stars, you know.”

Ringo offers a lopsided smile as John goes quiet. 

He promptly sticks up two calloused fingers, something like a peace sign, wiggling them at Ringo with a childlike gaiety. He then plants them on the spongy surface of the couch cushion between them, blunt nails digging into the cotton.

John looks up at him quietly, lips stretched into a teasing smile, his pupils still enormous and radiant. Ringo stares back, curious and gleeful.

He starts to walk his fingers toward Ringo’s hand, landing at the expanse of his knuckles. He pokes at them once, twice, almost animatedly. Ringo asks with a soft laugh, “What are you doin’, Johnny?”

John shushes him very gently, then stops poking in favor of tracing. The impish prodding becomes long, electric touches across the back of Ringo’s hand, paths of lightning and heat. He traces the protruding bones like papery flower petals, like he’s searching for something.

Ringo’s breath catches. John’s fingers move up his arm, across his shoulder, land at his cheek—he swipes a cold thumb just under Ringo’s eye, like wiping away an invisible tear. The rain outside has never seemed louder, and yet it’s coupled with John’s closeness and the odd tranquility of being indoors, away from the pounding storm.

“Lovely, you are,” John whispers, only inches away now.

John isn’t John right now, Ringo reminds himself. John is what something else has made him right now. “You don’t mean that.”

John insists, “You’re lovely, Ringo. You do look pretty, I mean it.”

Ringo clears his throat. “Everybody looks pretty on acid, John.”

“No, no, no, I’ve always thought you were gorgeous,” John frowns, suddenly disheartened, “Have I really never told you that?”

He has. Ringo remembers the last time. Spring, in someone’s sun-shone acre-spanning backyard (John’s or Paul’s, maybe), their own little island. George and Paul were running about like they were kids in Hamburg again, with the latter trying resolutely to avoid being thrown in the pool (A cheer of, _“Get ‘im, Georgie!”_ followed by, _“Don’t you dare, you evil bastard, it’s freezin’ in there!”_ —back when they could still laugh together.) 

John and Ringo were sat on the nearby back porch, content as content could be. As Ringo had smiled against the sun, John had whispered a simple and reverent, “Beautiful,” kissed his cheek, and laughed. Ringo kissed him back, flushed with heat and flattery. (This, of course, was followed by a great McCartney shriek and an incredible splash as he and George tumbled into the water.)

The memory aches in way it didn’t used to.

“You have,” he decides to assure John.

John’s eyes scan his face like the calculated lines and brushstrokes of fine artwork.

A heavy crack of thunder shakes the house as he smashes their lips together.

Ringo pulls back as lightning streaks across the room, white light cutting through, as if to emphasize how exposed he immediately feels.

John’s eyes are shining as they stare up at him, pleading and hurt, and Ringo can only choke out, “Johnny, you’re not well.”

John tries again, kissing him in that soft, desperate way of his, hands grasping at the front of Ringo’s shirt like a lifeline. Ringo wants nothing more than to kiss him back, soothe him and taste him and feel like he used to feel, but they just can’t do this because _John isn’t John right now._

Ringo yanks himself away again, firmer this time, “John, you’re off your 'ead with drink and whatever else. It’s not right.”

John’s eyes are wide, begging, “But you’d still want me? If I wasn’t?”

“Don’t make me answer that,” Ringo replies, a sob caught in his throat, his heart pounding.

John’s gaze hardens, his pain quickly manifesting into fury the way it always has, “Fuck you. You’re a cowardly bastard, you know that? You’re just like the rest of them.”

Ringo’s eyes sting. “That’s not fair.”

“Fuck fair,” John spits, shooting up off the sofa, “None of this is fair. Paul and I can’t even write together anymore, and George won’t look me in the eye, and now it’s like—it’s like you’re afraid of me, or you’ve fuckin’ given up on me, just like they have.”

Ringo stands, too, trying to follow and console, “John, no one’s _given up on you_ —”

“Then fucking prove it! Prove that it mattered!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something! I’m so fucking sick of your middleman routine. You’ve got to get stirred up, for Christ’s sake, start fighting! You’re just letting it happen.”

“Don’t put the blame all on me, son,” Ringo snaps, “All four of us have things they ought to own up to. Getting piss drunk and losing your temper doesn’t do anyone any good.” Ringo knows he’s being harsh, but he also knows John needs to hear it.

John gets in his face, hot breath and unparalleled ferocity, “Tell me you want me or tell me to fuck off and go home. Make up your fucking mind, Ringo, stop trying to fucking please everyone—"

Something in him snaps like its been stretched beyond its limit. Sharp, cloudburst words start to pour from him, the kind that have been held back for ages, finally let loose.

“ _Alright,_ John, here it is! I’ve never stopped wanting you,” Ringo cries, his voice wavering, “I think a person would have to be mad not to want you.”

John stares.

Ringo bounds on, his responding gaze just as hostile, “And sometimes you make yourself impossible to want just to see how far you can push until somethin’ gives way. Because you’re fuckin’ terrified of not having control, and right now, between George and Paul and me, you think that’s the only way you can get it.”

What follows is a terrifying moment of silence. Ugly words hang between them, real and severe, irreclaimable.

Ringo swallows, spent. He half expects John to hit him, or perhaps slam the door and never return.

Instead, John’s posture slumps, jaw slackening, thin sheets of glass coming over his eyes. He sits back down onto the sofa, slow and quavering, curling, small, weakened. He wraps his arms around himself, dragging and trance-like, a cheap imitation of the security he lacks. He ducks his head, long hair shielding his face like eclipsing curtains.

Ringo has seen John in many stages. He’s seen angry, iron witted, fearful, fighting, thrashing John. 

He’s never seen him surrender.

He returns to the sofa himself, bone-heavy, frightened, shameful as he sits beside him. He reaches a useless hand out, fingertips barely brushing John’s shoulder in a miserable attempt at compassion. 

He does not regret what he’s said, in the moment. He only regrets that it had to be said at all, and that his was the mouth it had to come from. They’re all breaking down—the four of them, in painful increments—he supposes he couldn’t run from it forever.

“John,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why.

John responds with a terrible shudder, his face still cloaked.

“Sorry,” John’s voice crackles like an old radio, “I’m really sorry.”

Ringo’s careful fingertips shift into a gentle grip at his shoulder, emboldened.

John finally turns to him. Tears make their way down his cheeks in horrible, hot paths, flesh pink with frustration and grief. He’s completely still, otherwise. 

“Oh, love,” Ringo coos, throat tightening. 

It’s all he can do to pull John into his arms, overcome with the sight of such staggering vulnerability. He goes quietly, hands tentative as they come to bracket Ringo. He accepts being cradled as he cries, soundless, free of sobs or whimpers, utterly fragile in Ringo’s hold.

He strokes his hair and rocks him gently back and forth, whispering nonsense apologies and saccharine consolations, letting John release what has likely been squashed down for months. They remain like that a long while, Ringo’s shirt soaking with tears and John’s eyes puffy with anguish.

“You’re alright,” Ringo tells him, “I won’t leave you.” John only holds him tighter.

He stills, eventually, breaths evening out and tense muscles uncoiling. He succumbs to sleep, face buried in the crook of Ringo’s neck, wrapped around him tightly, more contact than they’ve had in months. Ringo gently slides his glasses off for him, sets them on the coffee table and hopes John’s dreams are kind to him.

He lies back on the couch and pulls him close. Memories of shared hotel rooms in the early days strike a warmth in his chest, times when sharing beds and smiles was commonplace.

They rest to the sound of rain, and breathe.

* * *

The following morning, John is gone.

Ringo is alone by the time he opens his eyes, squinting against the sunlight squeezing through the windows. John’s weight has left his side, and he distantly wonders whether he’d ever been here at all—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamt something like that. He supposes what he can’t fix in the waking world, he tries to fix in dreams.

His fears are thankfully assuaged by the discovery of a hastily scribbled note and a mug of tea, resting on the coffee table across from him.

He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and reaches for the mug. The tea is lukewarm, by now, but the thought of John scrambling around quietly to make it for him brings a smile to his face.

He picks up the note.

_You’re the heart of us. Love, John_

He must read the words twenty times over. His heart swells. They’ll be okay.

He drinks the hell out of that lukewarm tea.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback are very much appreciated!! you can find me lurking around on tumblr @honeyheffron. lots of love <3


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